by Pamela Tracy
“Brubaker,” Shelley whispered, white-hot anger causing her to clench her fingers, dig her nails into the soft skin of her palm. “I’ve gone back to my maiden name.”
Then Shelley went cold. What if Larry was watching this broadcast? Would he think she was cooperating with the authorities? He’d threatened to make her disappear. He could make her disappear, too. What was stopping him?
Shelley slumped, the television remote falling from her hand.
The doorbell sounded. Shelley, pushing away dread, went to the side window to peek out.
Oscar Guzman waited at her door.
She didn’t want to answer, but he’d ring again and wake Ryan.
She allowed the door to open maybe an inch. “Yes?”
“You okay?”
“No.”
“I’ve been sent to bring you to the station. Riley has a few more questions.”
“Sure he does. My responses will be the same as yesterday. Nothing’s changed except now the media knows I’m the one who found the body.”
“That didn’t come from us.”
“Mommy.” Ryan joined her at the door, pushing it open and looking up at Oscar before saying, “Doggy.”
“Peeve is home with my aunt. Would you like to go visit him?”
“No,” Shelley said.
“Look.” Oscar lowered his voice, sounding kind, intimate. “I know this is an imposition. But we’ve got Cody Livingston in the hospital, and it looks like he has a solid alibi. He was in Flagstaff, Arizona, the morning his wife died.”
A white sedan drove slowly down Vine Street. Larry had driven a white sedan. He liked white. He’d claimed that white cars were so commonplace that it helped him fit in. More like disappear into a crowd, she thought.
He shouldn’t have been in this neighborhood, not after what he’d done, what she’d seen. No, couldn’t be him. He wasn’t stupid. But still, the sight of that white car sent a feeling of helplessness through her so debilitating that it took all her willpower and strength to remain standing.
“What’s wrong?” Oscar stepped back, turned around and scanned the street. The tail end of the white car disappeared around the corner, and Shelley knew Oscar hadn’t seen it.
“Nothing. Nothing is wrong. How is Cody?”
“Extreme fatigue compounded by shock.”
“Of finding out his wife was murdered?”
“He loved his wife,” Oscar said simply, making Shelley almost ashamed of how defensive she was. She needed to remind herself that Oscar Guzman had been Candace’s friend, and this was more than a case for him.
“I’d never personally met them,” she shared. “Nothing more than a wave as Ryan and I walked by. I just knew he worked at Little’s.”
“I believe you,” Oscar said.
Powerful words when the person saying them actually meant them. Shelley acknowledged Oscar did. That made him even more dangerous, because she might start trusting him.
That would be a mistake.
“Mommy, eat.”
“I’ll fix you pancakes, Ryan. Then I need to talk to Officer Guzman for a few minutes.”
“’Kay.”
She opened the door the rest of the way, letting Oscar in. He sat at her table, entertaining Ryan by moving a plastic train and making choo-choo noises while she cooked breakfast. Once Ryan was in front of the television with a Thomas the Train DVD to entertain him, she joined Oscar at the table.
“I’m on your side. I want you to know that. Here’s what we have,” he said. “We have a female victim with no known enemies. We have a husband with a solid alibi. We have you calling in a possible homicide and then fleeing the scene. If you’d just called without fleeing, I don’t think there’d be an issue—”
“Ha! So you say.”
Shelley stared hard at Oscar, knew when she’d been bested. “Let me feed and dress Ryan. Then I’ll head to the station with you.”
“Great. My aunt Bianca offered to watch Ryan if you don’t want to take him with you.”
“No. Ryan goes where I go.”
An hour later, Shelley and Ryan followed Oscar into the police station and down the hall to the same room as the day before. Ryan, clutching Pooh Bear and holding a toy train for Officer Leann Bailey to admire, went to the break room while Shelley went with Oscar.
Officer Guzman, she corrected herself, shaking away the sound of his words: “I believe you.”
Riley didn’t so much as glance up from the table where he sat looking at some papers.
“We just want to catch the killer,” Oscar said as she sat down.
Riley nodded his agreement.
Oscar sat at a chair away from the table and against the wall.
Riley fired the first question. “What time do you and Ryan usually take your morning walk?”
For the fourth time, Shelley carefully went over the time Ryan woke up, how they’d started out for preschool, met up with Oscar and wound up by Candace’s window.
Riley prodded and Shelley shared what she knew, and she did know the habits of those on her street. She knew what times her neighbors left for work: the car salesman and the plumber left before true daylight. She knew who was retired and who didn’t work. She confessed that she knew what time Candace left to jog in the morning and that Candace went to the grocery store often.
Now that Shelley knew Candace’s maiden name was Little, that made sense. Jack Little owned thirty stores across the small towns of northern New Mexico. Shelley had met him just once, back when she was in junior high. She’d known he had a daughter but not the daughter’s name.
She wasn’t so sure of Cody’s schedule. He didn’t seem to have a set one and was often gone overnight, but then, she’d been in the garage apartment only a couple of weeks.
“Could Candace have gone for an early morning run on Monday?” Riley asked.
“She could have, but I didn’t see her that morning.”
“Did you look for her?”
“No, not really. I was late and wasn’t paying attention to what was happening outside my window.”
“Besides the neighbors, what else have you seen early in the morning?”
“The garbage truck, but it comes on Thursday.” She turned and pointed to Oscar. “I would see him drive home a little after eight. I didn’t know who he was or that he was a cop. I knew he lived at Bianca’s place, and I figured he worked a graveyard shift somewhere since his motorcycle rarely left during normal work hours. I figured he was new to town and would soon be looking for a permanent place to live.”
“You’re pretty observant,” Riley noted, his tone a bit accusatory.
Shelley didn’t care. “Yes, you can thank yourself and Larry Wagner for that. I don’t ever intend to be a victim again...” Her voice caught.
“And?” Riley prodded.
“Doesn’t matter what I want,” Shelley said. “Here I am, in trouble again.”
“Then don’t be,” Oscar said. “Tell us everything you saw.”
“I have. I had Ryan next to me, asking if that woman was asleep. I’m pretty sure I told him yes and that we needed to get going.”
“What made you so sure she was dead?” Riley asked. “If she’d been alive, even barely, you calling right away might have made a difference.”
“Her eyes were open. I froze for a minute. I was so amazed that Ryan thought she was asleep when she was so lifeless. I had to remind myself later that he’s barely three and that to him, she was just lying still. If I’d thought for a moment she was alive, I’d have broken down the door.”
Even with Larry standing there, she thought to herself.
“She hadn’t been dead long,” Riley said.
“How did she die? Did someone hit her?” It was a mere forty-eight hours
since Shelley had stumbled across the murder scene, and over and over she tried to focus on what her husband held in his hands. She figured it was the murder weapon. But in truth, it had looked more like a piece of paper, perhaps an envelope.
“A blow to the head. We thought at first she’d been hit over the head, but now it looks like she caught her right temple on the edge of a coffee table on the way down. We’ll know more when we get the autopsy report.”
“So possibly it wasn’t murder?” Shelley, for the first time, felt a glimmer of hope. Maybe Larry hadn’t killed that poor woman.
Then why the threatening text, and why had he been in Candace’s home?
“It was murder,” Oscar said, “but maybe not premeditated. There were signs of a struggle.”
Slowly Riley took a pair of latex gloves out of his pocket and put them on. Then he opened his folder and pulled out a black piece of paper. It was shiny, glossy and oversize.
Shelley looked back at Oscar. His expression told her nothing except that she was in trouble. “What’s that?”
“Preinked vellum paper,” Riley responded. “I’d like to get the impressions of both your hands, palms down, fingers splayed.”
“Why?”
“Because Candace was pushed, and the person who pushed her had small hands.”
Riley’s gaze went to Shelley’s hands. “Like yours.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
HER CELL PHONE SOUNDED, beating out the words to “It’s a Small World (After All)” because Ryan loved the song. Not that he’d been to Disneyland. She wasn’t sure where he’d heard the song. She just knew he loved it, so she’d chosen it as her ringtone.
It made him happy.
Sleepily, she turned over and reached for the bedside table. She checked the phone’s screen. A local number but not one she recognized. She’d made a mistake a few days ago and answered without checking. This time she hit Ignore, rolled over and went back to sleep.
“Mommy, outside?” Ryan patted her arm. She opened one eye. Lately the only thing she wanted to do was sleep, and she wasn’t sure if the fatigue was due to the pregnancy or the chaos of her life.
Ryan wasn’t having the same sleep issues. He went down easily and usually slept until she nudged him out of bed. It was unusual for him to wake up without her prodding.
She glanced at the clock and groaned. She should have been up forty-five minutes ago! Ryan must have known that because he’d tried to help out and had dressed himself: a blue pair of shorts, no shirt and one shoe.
His favorite outfit. Unfortunately, the shorts were from the dirty clothes hamper and had milk stains on them, and the shoe was hers.
“No, Mommy has a doctor’s appointment.” Shelley twisted. Getting out of bed when pregnant took skill. “I need to drop you off at preschool, and then I’ll be going into town.” She didn’t mention that running late was becoming a habit and that she hated to rush.
“Good. I want candy.” With that, Ryan tottered away, probably in search of her other shoe.
Shelley exhaled, almost calm. Ryan had a way of doing that for her, reminding her why she had to put one foot in front of the other, keep moving, stay sane. For the last three nights, since she’d seen Candace’s body, she hadn’t slept well, relaxed or felt safe. Every time she closed her eyes, she got an instant replay of walking unsuspectingly up to that window, looking in and seeing that poor woman lying there with Larry standing a few steps away.
The man she’d been married to. Her baby’s father.
A killer who still knew everything about her.
“Mommy looks mad.” Ryan returned.
Shelley smiled. “No, Mommy’s not mad, just waking up and needing to hurry.” She rolled awkwardly from the bed and promised herself she’d visit the bank today, talk to the manager who was already investigating her case.
“I’ll bring you shoes?” Ryan asked.
“Let me have the one you’re wearing, and I’ll go look for my other. Get the blue tennis shoes for yourself.”
“Blue.” He nodded and smiled but didn’t move.
She pointed to her feet and said, “Blue shoes.”
This time he toddled off.
It wasn’t good for Ryan to see how tense this whole thing was making her. It was all she could do not to curl up in a ball and hide in the closet. Never, never, had she considered Larry a killer.
But now she knew different, and the cops knew she was hiding something.
For the next twenty minutes, they quickly completed their morning routine. Ryan happily let her dress him in his favorite Handy Manny outfit, only without the tools.
Finally she opened the door, and she and Ryan stepped outside. She stood, drinking in the fresh air and surveying a neighborhood that looked normal but wasn’t.
“Mommy, ready?” Ryan nudged her.
Taking a deep breath, one that caused the baby to adjust and poke a toe or finger or something into Shelley’s rib, she locked the door behind her.
Never had she thought she’d feel unsafe in her town.
Ryan held on to her hand as they descended the stairs. Once they reached the bottom, she pulled him into her arms. She was tired, too, but this little guy was the perfect prescription for feeling better.
“We’re going to have a great day,” she predicted.
“’Cause you buy me candy.”
“I’ll buy you candy,” she promised as she hurried around to the driver’s seat.
After positioning herself, no longer easy with such a big belly, she turned the ignition key. The car sputtered, zoomed for a moment and died. She tried twice more. Then waited a moment because she didn’t want to flood the engine. In the backseat, Ryan sang a silly song about crayons. In the front, Shelley tried not to worry about what the car was not doing: starting.
In the quiet, she heard the distant hum of a motorcycle. Oscar must be close. He seemed always to be around when she needed him. Didn’t mean she wanted him to be around.
Or did she?
Want?
Need?
No, it was too early in the morning for an in-depth look at the only single male who’d walked through her front door, filling it and making her feel secure just for a moment; who’d sat at her kitchen table, playing a nonsense game with Ryan and acting like he enjoyed it; and who’d looked at her with something akin to longing in his eyes.
Yeah, right, longing. He longed to know where her ex-husband was. What else? She wasn’t sure.
She turned the key again. This time the sputter sounded worse. Okay, she could pop the hood and look, but she wouldn’t know what she was looking at.
Opening the door, she got out, telling Ryan, “Stay still. I’m just seeing if I can get the car moving.”
“I help,” Ryan offered, attempting to undo the belt. He couldn’t yet, but soon she’d need to talk to him about his escape attempts and growing abilities.
“If I need help, I’ll come get you.” She walked toward the front of her aged green Impala, started to open the hood and stopped. A white minivan had pulled up in front of Candace’s house. It was not Larry’s favorite kind of vehicle, but it was one he’d willingly use. You could get a lot of stuff in a minivan. An older man exited, his silver hair blowing in the breeze. He stared at the house, his face stoic. Shelley recognized him even from a distance. The passenger side opened and a blonde woman, much younger, stepped out. She circled the vehicle and put her hand on his arm. Shelley didn’t recognize her.
Jack Little didn’t so much as move.
Shelley studied the older man. She’d grown up seeing historical photos of the Little Supermarkets coming into popularity. Jack Little and his brother had been in many of them. There’d been plenty of photos from the seventies and eighties. He’d posed with employees, with politicians and other business
leaders, even a few nationally known. None depicted the expression he wore today. It wasn’t stoic; it was grief-stricken. Finally he took a step, slowly followed by another, as if both feet were weighed down.
Oscar pulled up behind the minivan on his motorcycle and removed his helmet. Not that she needed him to. She knew his body type, how he moved, by heart. Maybe her heart responded a bit too much, judging by the flutter.
No, the baby must be moving. That had to be it.
Oscar walked to the couple and said a few words. Then he put his arms around the older gentleman, holding him close, until the man collapsed against Oscar, sobbing.
Tears trickled down her cheeks.
“Mommy, why are you crying?” Ryan had been watching.
“I’m crying because I’m sad.” She didn’t need Ryan to know the real reason.
He nodded and said, “Dumb car.”
If only it were that simple. Unless she missed her guess, she was witnessing Candace’s dad and stepmother as they entered his daughter’s home for the first time without her being there.
Shelley remembered coming home after her mother died: how quiet the house had been, how empty, how wrong.
Oscar stood respectfully outside. The woman stopped when she reached him and put a hand on his arm. Oscar stepped aside, and even from a distance, Shelley knew the woman was laughing. Some people dealt with sorrow by laughing.
Then, as if Oscar felt her watching, he turned to her.
Busted.
She met his gaze, color going to her cheeks as Oscar said something to the couple before heading her way. The older man stared at her for a long time.
Oscar had a five o’clock shadow and circles under his eyes. She knew he worked the graveyard shift, which had ended hours ago. He should have been at Bianca’s and in bed.
“You all right?” he asked after crossing the street and finally reaching her side.
“Yes. Shouldn’t I be?”
“You’re not answering your phone.”
“I answer only when I recognize the number,” she said.
“I put my number on your fridge.” He raised an eyebrow. “I’d think with all that is going on, you’d be curious.”
